| don’t care if I’m six years older, we gonna beat they asses the moment the grand jury is over and he’s all healed. Trevor’s been asking what the grand jury is and why we got reporters outside all the time. I’ve been telling him that it’s about Marcus and getting him out of jail, which isn’t a lie, but it’s not true either. I know I don’t have any reason to be ashamed, it’s not like Trevor didn’t know I was out in the streets doing something I shouldn’t be just like he known his mama was high all the time even if he didn’t know what she was high on. Still, he doesn’t need another reason to be scared, another reason to not trust nobody. He’s got enough. Trevor said he wanted to go out this morning, tried to stand up, but he was walking all lopsided and I put on my mama voice and told him he best lie down. I’ve been telling Trevor I got cameras set up around the apartment so I’ll know if he tries to move or watch a movie or something while I’m gone. I don’t know if he believes me or not, but it’s better he get used to being tracked with the amount of people we’ve got following us around for an interview. I can’t let the reporters see him looking like this anyway, so swollen that CPS would be here before dinner. The apartment is darker than it’s ever been |
in flour, his hand dipped in a bag of M&M’s. He scoops them out ’cause we don’t have any chocolate chips and adds them to the bowl of batter. The pan is sizzling on the stove and he’s now tall enough to pour the batter in. When he does, he pours so much it fills up the whole thing, makes a perfect circle. “That’s enough.” I grab the bowl before all the batter is added to the massive pancake now sizzling, except at the center. “You know it’s gonna take a long time for that to cook.” Trevor shrugs and I smile, shaking my head. The song on the radio is this new techno bop and I don’t think it’s got much beat, but he starts to jump, twisting and jerking across the room, throwing himself on the bed. He turns the boom box volume up and the apartment is blasted in techno wheezing, so loud I don’t hear the knock on the door. It’s the light that floods in when it swings open that makes me turn. Vernon stands there, looking just like I remember him: a boxy ’fro, cargo pants splattered in what could be grease or paint or water. For such a short man, he seems much taller than he is, his step a heavy thud on the floor. I watch him take in the image of us. The pancake, the stereo, me with flour still covering my palms. Trevor mid-shimmy. “Is Dee around?” He turns |
